


The Scarlet Pimpernel's Lover

by imitateslife



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Frenemies, Gen, In which Marguerite is super clever and Percy isn't there to see it, Irony, with friends like these...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 00:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11196744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitateslife/pseuds/imitateslife
Summary: When one of Marguerite's companions makes a bold suggestion and an even bolder claim, Lady Blakeney must use all her skills as an actress to protect her dignity, her husband's secret identity, and her friend's pride.Post-canon, general fic with a heaping dose of Blakeney love on the side.





	The Scarlet Pimpernel's Lover

Lady Blakeney’s _salons_ had become – in a few short years – the toast of London. Every blue-blooded woman in England, whether of English or foreign birth, craved an invitation. Happily, there seemed to be almost no shortage of salons. Lady Blakeney sometimes hosted as many as two in one month. No one quite knew where it was that she found her special guests. Prominent artists and intellectuals from all over Europe could often be found partaking in tea and cakes with those bluestockings Lady Blakeney deigned to invite into her home. However, there was little question as to where Lady Blakeney found the energy to host two salons in a month.

“Really, my dear Lady Blakeney,” Lady Howe said, stirring her tea. “We must find some other way for you to occupy your time – you’ll run yourself into the ground at this rate!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,’ Marguerite said. “If I stopped hosing these salons – why, every woman in London would be forced to talk politics and art with their husbands, as if men can comprehend such things!”

“And where is Sir Percy this month, Lady Blakeney?” Lady Vane asked from the other sofa. Lady Vane had small features, which were now contorted to a smirk. “The countryside again with his gentlemen friends?”

The room fell silent and looked to Marguerite, who, for her part, looked relatively nonplussed. She kept her head high and she smiled.

“Indeed,” she said. “He and Lord Ffoulkes are hunting. Suzanne, tell Lady Vane what a marvelous hunter Sir Andrew is!”

Before Lady Ffoulkes could do that, however, Lady Vane continued to speak: “Really, Marguerite, do leave poor Suzanne out of it. It’s bad enough that your husband steals hers away so often!”

There were a few whispers. Marguerite set her teacup on its saucer and the saucer upon the little table. She folded her hands in her lap – if you looked closely, you could see her knuckles blanche from pressure. Still, her smile remained in place as she looked at Lady Vane.

“If I have offended Suzanne,” Marguerite said. “Then I will remedy on her terms, not yours.”

She turned to look at Suzanne, who sat upon the armchair – very pale, but now smiling. The poor girl suffered as Marguerite did every time the Scarlet Pimpernel and his league of men embarked upon a daring rescue.

“My dear girl,” she continued, still looking at Suzanne. “I hope you can forgive me the need my husband has of yours. You know how important Sir Percy believes his quarry to be. I’m afraid he can become so singularly focused.”

“There is nothing to forgive! Why, my dear Marguerite, I’m sure you know how important this hunt is to my husband, as well!”

A genuine smile graced Marguerite’s features – almost wicked with delight at the doublespeak she exchanged with Suzanne. She very much doubted anyone else in the room took it for anything more than the silly, French wives of two silly, foppish men sharing a private joke. Marguerite almost said something more, but Lady Vane was determined not to be ignored.

“The chief difference between Sir Andrew and Sir Percy, of course,” Lady Vane interjected. “Is that all London knows the former and his wife are perfectly matched. You and Sir Percy, meanwhile – and I don’t mean to be indelicate – could not be more different, Lady Blakeney. Have you never thought to entertain a lover who is more your equal?”

The whispers and tittering of Marguerite’s guests reverberated off the marble floor. Such a brazen suggestion was not one any other woman in attendance would dare make – least of all to Lady Blakeney. If Lady Vane’s suggestion shocked or offended her, however, Marguerite remained remarkably good humored. She pressed a hand to her breast as she laughed. Her curls shook until she inhaled deeply.

“Oh, la!” she said. “You always are good for a laugh, Lady Vane. What would I want with a lover? Percy dotes upon me when he is home – surely that is not only enough, but more than any woman can dare hope for.”

“If you believe that is the best a woman can hope for, you are in more desperate need for a love than I realized. Might I confide something here, that none of you ladies will repeat?”

Murmured vows of secrecy rippled through the room. Marguerite was the last to aver. Lady Vane looked around – theatrically, Marguerite thought, which when coming from an actress was not always a compliment – and she leaned forward, as if confiding in Marguerite most specifically.

"I have taken a lover,” she said in a false whisper.

There were a few gasps and noises of intrigue. Marguerite, for her part, could only say, “And Lord Vane is none the wiser?”

“Even if he was, I would not fear it,” Lady Vane said. “Why, I think I would forsake home and husband both if my love but asked. His letters are works of pure poetry. Do you know what it is for a man to wax such eloquence about you? For him to lay his soul bare upon the page?”

Marguerite had had many suitors in her time at the Comedie Française who had written her poetry. She’d kept all their letters bound together by a ribbon and burned them the night before her wedding. The only letters she’d kept were Percy’s. Though she often said that his poetic talents began and ended with that inane little poem he’d written about the Scarlet Pimpernel, she had evidence to the contrary. Even now, well into their marriage, it wasn’t uncommon for him to write her a romantic couplet or two on mornings he was called away from her bed. This, of course, was private knowledge. Still, a fond, wistful smile touched her lips.

“Ah, yes,” she said wryly. “What greater happiness could a woman know than to have poetry written for and about her? Still… no amount of poetry could tempt me away from my husband. No man could, either, for that matter.”

Frustration flushed Lady Vane’s cheeks. A poet might have made metaphors from the apples of her cheeks; Marguerite could only wonder whether this lover had seen Lady Vane’s skin go blotchy from rage and whether that might change anything between the two.

“I’m sure one man could!” Lady Vane said. “Surely the Scarlet Pimpernel cuts a more romantic figure than your Sir Percy!”

For a fleeting moment, Marguerite did not know whether to laugh or to panic. She massaged the base of her throat as color – more even and rosier than that painting Lady Vane's face – crept onto her features. Was she discovered – was _Percy_? How could the Scarlet Pimpernel tempt Marguerite away from her husband when he _was_ her husband? Lady Vane could not possibly know – no one present except dear Suzanne knew.

“The Scarlet Pimpernel?” Marguerite echoed. She laughed and the room relaxed. “Doesn’t current gossip hold that he’s a man of the cloth? I could never!”

“He most certainly is not! I’ll have you know that the Scarlet Pimpernel is my lover! I see that’s stolen the smile from your face!”

It had, indeed, stolen the smile from Marguerite’s face. However, she did not doubt Percy’s fidelity. It was as she said – he doted upon her. More than that. He worshiped her – mind, body, and soul. Whatever Lady Vane said about them being mismatched partners could not have been more ill-informed. He was her equal in everything. He was not just her husband, but her lover and best friend – sentiments she’d seldom heard other married women express about their own husbands. She was not only lucky, but blessed to have her dear Percy. He was loyal and true; honorable and as in love with Marguerite as Marguerite was with him. She could no more imagine him taking a lover than she could imagine herself taking one. And yet, she could not smile because though she’d heard such rumors before, they’d never penetrated her inner circle. And never had she heard someone vowing knowledge of the Scarlet Pimpernel sound so firm in his or her convictions.

“It’s only…” Marguerite said. “That I find it hard to believe – and forgive me for saying this, for no offense is meant – that the Scarlet Pimpernel has the time to entertain lovers. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but there’s a war on in France he seems determined to end.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” 

“Not at all, my dear Lady Vane!” Marguerite pressed a hand to her companion’s knee. “I just wonder what it is that makes you think your lover is the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

“Why, it’s all in how he signs his letters,” Lady Vane said.

She reached into her reticule and procured a letter. The wax seal was already broken and therefore impossible to identify. It was plain stationary, not at all like that which Percy used in his public and private life, but not entirely unlike that which he used to correspond with his men – and that which his men used to correspond in return. In fact, it was so plain, it could have been any man’s stationary.

“And I suppose he signs with his name in these love letters!”

“Of course not,” Lady Vane said. “Do you know nothing of the Scarlet Pimpernel? He signs with his symbol – a single, scarlet pimpernel drawn at the base of every letter. Go on, see for yourself.”

Marguerite accepted the letter and unfolded it. She scanned the writing – the maudlin, muddled poetry and the looping letters that were entirely unfamiliar. At the base of the letter, a single, red flower was drawn with exquisite detail. Marguerite studied it for a moment and she looked up.

“Do you know who it is writing you these letters?” she asked. “Have you met this man in person?”

“I’m sure I must have done,” Lady Vane said. “How else was I to have made an impression?”

“But you do not know his identity beyond the signature?”

“I’ve already told you he’s never signed his name,” Lady Vane said. “I only know him from the flower he draws upon each letter – and his written words and the tales of all his heroism, of course.”

“A pity,” Marguerite said. “If I were you, I would want revenge upon any man who took me fool enough to mistake a carnation for a pimpernel – I do hope you haven’t promised him anything! But then, you are too clever by half to have let a common forgery deceive you!”

She handed the letter back with a smile and several of the other women crowded around Lady Vane’s shoulders to study the letter. Indeed, the flower at the bottom, though scarlet, was no pimpernel. It had far too many petals and looked far more like those flowers which were popular as men’s boutonnieres and gifts for actresses at the stage door.

“Why,” Marguerite continued as Lady Vane again went blotchily red. “If I were you, I would be insulted not only by this blatant forgery, but that the man in question could only be bothered to draw a carnation and not a red rose. Now, there is a flower worth getting flustered over! And to think, you were willing but moments ago to forsake Lord Vane for nothing more than some pretty words and a common carnation!”

Lady Vane sputtered, coming quite close to spouting an insult or two, but she could not manage the words. Marguerite watched her and continued to smile. Then, she reached for her tea, which had grown cool during conversation.

“It’s quite fortunate you shared that letter with me and that we have all sworn ourselves to secrecy – in the wrong company, this could have ruined you! But – as I’ve said – you surely are too clever to have let this impostor deceive you. In fact, I think all of us must be ever-vigilant for such cons. It could have happened to any one of us!”

But that night, as she traced the pimpernel insignia upon a letter from Percy, she knew full well there was one woman who would never – and could never – be deceived in such a manner. And not for the first time, Marguerite Blakeney counted her blessings that her husband was her lover, best friend, and hero.  


End file.
